Bloody Decisions
by Madam Grey
Summary: Blood magic for the sake of blood magic helps no one. Yet, Merrill knew all too well that what was done could not be undone. Berating him would serve no purpose.


I haven't written fanfiction in ages. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.

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><p>Why wouldn't it work? Merrill placed her hands on her hips, glaring at the murky glass she willed it to reflect something, anything. She was running out of ideas. If only she had the Arulin'Holm. She sighed, plopping on her bed. <em>Patience<em>, she needed to be patient. Nothing would come about today.

A loud knock came from the door. "Who would be up at this hour?" she asked aloud, grabbing her staff and poking her head out her room. They knocked again, three successively louder bangs against the rickety door of her house. "Hullo?" she called, walking over to the door.

"Merrill, it's me," replied the person behind the door.

"I don't know a Me," she answered, her hand hovering over the door knob. A small smile crept across her face at his muffled sigh. She opened the door before he could knock again. "Oh, Hullo Hawke! Did you see Me anywhere?"

Her smile faded as he brushed past her. Closing the door softly, she stood off to the side and watched him stalk through her living room.

"Would you like a glass of water? I'll just go grab the pot . . ." Merrill trailed off, watching him intently and wringing her hands together.

Hawke paced back and forth across the small room. The flickering glow from the fire cast his face in dancing shadows. "Wine would be good," he replied, scrubbing his hand across his unkempt beard. She could see the tension coiled in his shoulders and the jitter in his steps. Abruptly he stopped in the middle of her living room and laid his head in his hands.

"Hawke?" she murmured, and took a tentative step towards him, titled her head to see his face. Looking closer Merrill could see his bandaged hands trembling and smell the distinctive tang of sweat. "Are you alright?"

"Lovely, never been better," he answered in a gruff voice without uncovering his face.

Merrill frowned. "You looked better yesterday," she began, "your beard wasn't as scraggly, and you didn't look so pale and unhappy. You smelled nicer too-,"

Hawke let out a heavy sigh, cutting short her rambling and looked at her. "It was a joke, Merrill. Look." She took a step back when he held out his bandaged hand. The gauze on the palm had turned red-brown. Taking his warm, shaking hand in hers, she pushed the gauze away.

"Blood magic," she whispered, touching the red and tender skin near the wound. His robes rustled as he tried to pull away, but she gripped his hand firmly. The fire crackled loudly in the hearth as the silence dragged on. Merrill's frown deepening with each passing moment, she wondered what had possessed him to do something so foolish. While Merrill had no qualms dealing with spirits, she had trained her whole life to understand the Beyond whereas Hawke had little knowledge. Perhaps he had been spending too much time with Anders and Vengeance and they had put the wrong ideas about spirits in his head.

Hawke grunted and looked away. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "If you don't have any wine, water is fine." At his tight smile, she dropped his hand and walked over to place the pot filled with water in the fire. Silence stifled the air clouding her thoughts with confusion and doubt as she busied herself with watching the water. There was a reason blood magic was rare, even among the Dalish. Deals with spirits could often go awry, and she knew that they hovered just within her reach, waiting for a moment of weakness. Perhaps it had been her influence. It was certainly a possibility as she had yet to turn into an abomination; a price that any careful blood mage might not pay. Yet the question remained, the answers standing just outside her reach: why?

"You know, a watched pot never boils." Merrill jumped in surprise at his gruff voice behind her. His hands came to rest on her shoulders. "Sorry, I did not mean to frighten you."

Continuing to watch the small bubbles form on the bottom of the pot, Merrill spoke, her tone low and serious, unthinkingly shaped by a Keeper's experience, "Blood magic, what purpose does this serve?"

"Purpose?" he echoed, his voice sounding distant. As she had often done, Merrill could imagine him staring into the fire searching for answers within its unforgiving flames but finding himself mesmerized by its fleeting questions. Hawke's grip tightened on her shoulders. He flung words carelessly at her, his voice mocking and cruel. "Other than pissing everyone off? I figured it would be a handy tool to get myself a one-way ticket to the Gallows. I've heard it's quite a nice place during the winter all snuggled up to a templar or two in a little room. I thought I'd give the Templars back their glory and self-righteousness."

She shrugged his hands off her shoulders and stood up, turning to stare at him. "I am helping my people; sacrifice is necessary! You-," she jabbed her finger into his chest, "have no reason to use blood magic."

He eyed her, lips thinning and nostrils flaring. Water sizzled on the burning wood, but she did not turn her back on him, did not take her eyes from his. The fire sputtered and the water growled. Sighing, Hawke reached around her, unhooked the pot, and moved to rest it on the table. Clouds of steam rose, the moisture catching in his black facial hair as he hunched over the pot and busied himself with scooping water into two mugs. With nonchalance, he set her mug on the table and pulled out a chair for Merrill. Draping an arm across the back of his chair, he brought the mug to his lips letting out a soft breath that sent the steam swirling.

Merrill crossed her arms waiting for him to say something. Instead he took a sip, and then another of the water. She admired his composure, but sometimes he acted like a contrary child! Stubborn until he got what he wanted. "Mythal," she sighed, dropping her arms in defeat and taking a seat across from him.

"Careful, it's hot," he warned, setting the mug on the table and, finally, turning to face her. She said nothing, acknowledging his words by blowing on the water to cool it. While he unwrapped his dirty bandages, Merrill reached over and lit the candle. Warm orange light bathed his face, reflecting the intensity in his amber eyes. He laid his scarred hands on the table between the two of them.

"I did it for power," he admitted his voice hushed but strained, "for strength." He paused to take a long drink from his mug before continuing, his voice strengthening with each word. "The feeling of magic through my veins, under my control, I cannot describe it. I feel invincible. I do not need to manipulate the Fade, and constantly reach for energy. Magic is my own, not just a connection!" He grasped her hands. They were hard but warm from his energy and his blood. She felt the tingle of sparks of lightning skittering across her skin. His eyes bore into hers and the silence fell again, but this time it is different: charged from the magic.

Merrill held her breath as she watched him shift in his seat. "I understand," she whispered. The restlessness had last a full week after she had made her own deal. It was clear why he had come to her. Yet did he expect sympathy? A hunger for power hardly evoked sympathy. Yet, what's done could not be undone. "You have a knack for making this more complicated than they need to, don't you?"Merrill could not stop the amused smile from sliding on her face.

"I figured you were having too much fun being scolded by Anders and Fenris. It wasn't fair that I miss any of that," he replied, grinning.

"Oh! I wouldn't dream of taking any attention away from you." She gave his hand a squeeze before standing and pattering towards her medicine cabinet. "I have some clean bandages," she mentioned. "Do you want the plain ones or the ones with flowers on them?" She turned around to show them the cloths.

"Flowers on them?" he chuckled, "Where did you find bandages like that?"

"Oh I found the cloth near Hanged Man the other day. The fabric is too small to make into a dress, but nice enough to be a decoration." She brought the cloth over and laid it in front of him. "I find it hides the blood better. Don't worry I washed it!" She quickly amended at his arched eyebrow.

Hawke shook his head and looked up at her, and in the candle light, she could see the twinkle in his eyes. This was silly. "Why not? I'd do it just to see the look on Varric's face." Merrill always found it a bit strange that Hawke could be serious one momet and at the next able to brush aside his problems. It couldn't be healthy. Although, she admitted to herself, dwelling on issues was not in the least bit healthy either. With a shake of her head she took her seat.

The quiet that settled over them was pleasant. She took a sip of her cool water and began to hum a tune as she set about dressing his wounds, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The night had been strange. Although she trusted Hawke to be careful, she could not stop the small pang of guilt from settling in her stomach. The guilt stemmed from feeling as if she had inadvertently influenced his decision and guilt from feeling angry with him. She was not a hypocrite; blood magic was dangerous and therefore only needed to be used for an important purpose. Not for mere power, although she knew the allure it had all too well. From that, she found that she could not fault him. If used carefully it would cause no harm to anyone save himself.

She tied the wrappings closed, tracing a pink petal. On the edge of her vision, she could see Hawke's eyes fluttering closed. It would do no good for him to walk home alone half-way asleep. "Hullo, Hawke?" A tired smile spread across his face as he stood.

"Ah, sorry, I shouldn't have kept you up so late." He held up his newly dressed hands, admiring the pink pastel flowers patterned across his hands. "Thank you, Merrill." Reaching down he laid his hand on her head and brushed his fingers under her chin before walking out the door.

Merrill sat, staring at the door. She was not sure if the fluttering feeling his touch had left was a good thing considering the night's events. The fire burned down, casting long shadows along the wall. She snuffed the candle out and shuffled to her room. However, she did not sleep. Crossing her legs, she sat in front of her mirror, touching the cold glass and feeling the simmer of power behind it.


End file.
